Demons of the Subconscious
by livethemystery
Summary: This is a story of a man named Lance. He is dark, and on life's edge. Fill your head with his story, and take a step into my imagination.


Note: The story of a man named Lance is rather short, but hits home. I wrote this story from personal expierences, andalso tosee what others think of my writing. So, review and tell me if you LOVED it... or if you absolutely hated it.

Demons of the Subconscious

The intense base throbbed in Lance's mind and with every beat it felt like a bullet was pushing itself further and further into his temples. He looked around and saw a frenzy of people of all races dancing and grinding as one to the beat. Lance was stumbling blindly through the crowd, trying to make his way to the nearest restroom, but people were crammed into the club and full of sweat. Gathering up all the energy that was left in his anorexic, frail body, he pushed forward with one heave and broke free; Lance looked around trying to find a bathroom and… there! He pushed the door open and almost threw up from the stench that billowed out, but continued walking until he found himself in the bathroom. He was standing straight in front of the mirror, staring at his gaunt, corpse looking face, amazed at how ugly and greasy his thick, blonde hair was. Without being able to hold it any longer, Lance vomitted what little food he had eaten in the past two days into the vile and disgusting sink.

Lance was in his mid-thirties and was very hard to look at. For the past few months, he had let his personal hygiene go. Showering had become foreign to him, as well as brushing his teeth, and trimming his facial hair. Lately he had taken to drugs as an escape from life, but those were becoming dull and not as pleasing anymore; as well, he had started losing sleep slowly but surely. It started off with waking early from a shallow sleep, then it evolved into troubles going to sleepcombined withwaking up early, and now he just couldn't sleep at all. Eating had lost its pleasure, and as his appetite failed, he started eating less and less until eventually he just didn't eat. When he walked down the streets of the city, he could always tell people were looking at him, judging him for his personal appearance, and thinking "What is this world coming to…" Personally, Lance didn't mind at all, for he had lost all self-esteem, and didn't really care anymore about anything. He was sick of being lonely, of going home everyday to his apartment and turning into some crazed man that hated everything. Suicide started to look more and more inviting as the days passed, and Lance started to give up on life.

Interrupting his thoughts, the little annoying voice that had been haunting him for the last few months spoke.

_You look and smell horribly you know; look at you! Are you seeing what I'm seeing? Seems the mental illness is starting to take its toll; the drugs, anorexia, and insomnia are wearing you down, and you know what? It's funny. Funny that I have to be in your head seeing all of the stupid things you're doing to yourself, and I can't do a thing about it. Do it. What, is someone afraid? GET A GUN AND PULL THE TRIGGER._

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP! I am SO sick of you talking to me, and you offer no decent advice. So just SHUT UP!" Lance screamed, in the boxy little bathroom that needed about four hours of janitorial services to clean up the vomit, urine, and other human body fluids.

There was a squeak and a flush, and through the reflection of the mirror, Lance saw a mid-20 year old stumble out of a bathroom stall looking around, obviously confused.

"Dude, who are you talking to man? There's no one in here but us."

_Kill him._

Immediately, Lance's mouth started lying without thinking. "Sorry about that, it was my wife on my cell phone. My apologies."

"Oh man, I'm sorry bro. I thought you were like escaped from the MHI or something."

"Yeah, it's alright."

With that, the stranger walked out of the bathroom and left Lance in silence once more.

_Good Lance, nice cover-up. We don't want anyone thinking you're crazy now do we? Very impressive. Now, go to your pathetic, overpriced apartment, walk into your room, pull out your dresser drawer, reach for your gun and…  
_Before Lance's demon could go on, Lance silenced it by putting his hands over both of his ears and pushing in with great force. When he applied pressure, it felt like his head was going to explode from the insane migraine he had already, and dizziness gripped Lance who tripped and then fell over. He gathered himself up, opened the bathroom door, and stumbled out of the hideous club which he had now come to hate. The immediate silence when the club door shut wasinsanely pleasing to Lance and his headache. Zipping up his hooded sweatshirt, he slowly dropped his hands from his ears. When the voice didn't say anything, he pulled his Marlboro cigarettes out from his shirt pocket, put one in his mouth, lit up, and inhaled. The immediate kick of nicotine was pleasing to Lance as he walked briskly up 134th West Street back to hisgrubby apartment in New York City.

When he reached the crosswalk outside of his apartment building on the corner, an inattentive car driver almost took his life by smashing straight into his legs; to Lance's disadvantage, at the last moment the car swerved, and the driver gave him the finger and continued on its way. Ignoring this fiasco, he opened the apartment building door and headed inside out of the icy November breezes. He trudged up three flights of stairs, walked down a dimly lit hallway, inserted his key into his apartment door and stepped inside.

The recognition of where he was sent a wave of depression through him. This was it. Again. The place he hated more than life itself. The place where he sat, and contemplated whether or not to take his life, the place where he wrote in his pathetic little journals about his thoughts and things he wanted to say during the day to people, but was too scared to actually bring himself to do it.

_Are you going to do it this time or what? Face it, you have no family, you have a small crowd of friends, and you hate your job and life? What is there to live for?_

Lance pondered what the voice had said. What _was_ there to live for? Death was a natural part of life, and it was soon to come anyway, so why put it off?

_So you're starting to understand. There is no point in going on. Only to consume the planet's resources and accumulate more unneeded garbage heaps, waste precious water, and pollute. Stop putting it off. Do it. NOW._

Lance made up his mind then and there,and got up to go into his bedroom. Knowing that it wouldn't make a difference in the world to anyone whether he wrote a suicide note or not, he decided it was useless and went to his dresser. He fumbled for his dresser drawer handle, tears streaming down his face. Throwing clothes over his shoulder until he got to the bottom where his shotgun rested, he pulled it out and got a single shell and loaded it. With swollen red eyes, and smelling of tobacco, he put the barrel in his mouth, clicked off the safety and looked around one last time. His finger clenched the trigger… and pulled.


End file.
